


Sipping On The Fog

by ClementineStarling



Category: True Detective
Genre: Drugs, M/M, Pre-Series, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-16
Updated: 2014-07-16
Packaged: 2018-02-09 03:50:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,403
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1967844
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ClementineStarling/pseuds/ClementineStarling
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Rust hangs out with Ginger...</p><p>There isn’t much intimate left that has not yet happened between them. And then one night a sunset-coloured high licks at the faded wallpaper and Rust does not even ask anymore what cocktail of drugs Ginger mixed up this time, he just washes it down with bourbon, and the smoke curls thick in the room.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sipping On The Fog

**Author's Note:**

> Unexpected relapse into my TD obsession, induced by [superworse's true camp post](http://superworse.com/post/79096333997/true-camp). (BTW does anyone know where true-detective-rules.tumblr.com disappeared to?!)
> 
> I don’t know what happened. I wanted this to be rough, desperate sex but then I must have looked at waaay too many picture of Joseph Sikora or sth, because quite a bit of his prettiness seeped into Ginger and somehow the whole angry sex turned out rather fluffy. 
> 
> **Content Warning: ******  
> This fic contains insinuations that might be uncomfortable for some readers, like the mentions of a rather rough treesome with a woman, sexual violence and generally sexist attitudes... The described sex is consensual however, not exactly fluffy at every point but more so than I expected myself.
> 
> * title = [song by the Destructo Swarmbots](https://myspace.com/destructoswarmbots/music/song/sipping-on-the-fog-26751520-26552705), from their album Clear Light  
> __  
> [Translation into Russian](https://ficbook.net/readfic/6116688) by 1234-fires-in-your-eyes. Спасибо! <3

It’s bound to happen some day. With them riding together, shacking up in rundown motel rooms, sharing drugs and booze and smokes, even the occasional woman, it’s only a matter of time. Lines have blurred, there is no such thing as decorum anymore. They are closer than brothers, they’ve sucked each other’s spit from bottles and tits and rubbed their cum into skin and wiped their blood off their fingers. There isn’t much intimate left that has not yet happened between them. And then one night a sunset-coloured high licks at the faded wallpaper and Rust does not even ask anymore what cocktail of drugs Ginger mixed up this time, he just washes it down with bourbon, and the smoke curls thick in the room.

"Remember the cute little blonde from Houston?" Ginger drawls as he leans forward to take the liquor bottle from Rust’s hand and the muscles flex under his bluish tattoos. He is only a couple of feet away, sitting on the opposite bed, and Rust feels his presence like the leaden denseness of an imminent thunderstorm, and it does not help that Ginger stares at him out of these glassy pale eyes of his like he actually waits for an answer.

"Mhm", Rust mumbles and shakes a cigarette from his pack. Course he remembers. And not only because of his brain that weaves sensations into tight nets – so invoking one memory will send ripples down neural pathways like vibrations in a spider’s web, stirring up a dozen others – but ‘cause their encounter with that cute little blonde from Houston is also not exactly something you’d forget. Ever. The moment is back in a flash: Her hot desperate breath on his face, the dragged out moans that came with it, the eyes wide and Ginger’s fist nearly cruel in her hair as he pushed into her and her onto Rust. He’s smelt her pussy on his fingers for the better part of a week until he got it out of his system. But something of Ginger is still lingering, like a tang of sweat on the tip of his tongue, like stale sheets and the burn of liquor.

"Wonder if by now she can walk again", Ginger chuckles before he takes another pull from the bottle and Rust’s eyes are glued to the bob of his throat as he swallows and suddenly his mouth is all dry and its cotton fuzziness reaches down into his guts. This time their fingers touch when Ginger hands over the booze and Rust feels the familiar spark race over his skin.

His lips catch at the neck of the bottle with more eagerness that is actually called for, sloppy and wet and sucking, instead of pulling purposefully at the glass. He looks at Ginger while he drinks and sees more interest than he’s bargained for, sees the anxious heave of the broad chest and the night-black spill of pupils and the way Ginger’s mouth opens in the faintest reflection of his gulps.

"Maybe we should have gotten her number after all", Rust tags along, still very much on safe ground. "Could have called for a rematch." His gaze does not waver as he holds out the liquor bottle again and now it’s Ginger’s fingers that brush against his. A sensation like the summer sun at noon when you step out of the shade, a sudden burst of too much heat on too tight skin.

"Shame", Ginger says and his large eyes stick to Rust while he lifts the bottle to his mouth and he repeats Rust’s lazy sucking, even adds a lewd swirl of his tongue, and Rust feels the heat surge and boil in his belly. Under all the scruffiness Ginger is actually quite pretty for a guy. Where Cohle is harsh and angular he is smooth and solid and simple and the urge to cradle the perfect curve of his skull is itching in Rust’s fingers. Countless times he’s seen women running their hands over the soft stubble, their fingertips pressing gently into the bone as they kissed him. He figured Ginger must be a good kisser, all languid lips and lazy tongue, at least judging from the reactions of the ladies who melt against him like snow in the sun. He is persuasive, too, keeps pushing the right buttons, not creepy or rapey, he just knows his way around women and can ease them into whatever he wants. Rust has observed him, hawk-eyed, every move, every whisper, and all he’s ever seen is blatant lust in the girls and Ginger’s mischievous wink and victorious grin. These scenarios are burnt into his mind, they swim with the smell of leather and motor oil and pussy and he imagines the flush of arousal spreading over Ginger’s skin, the low groan wrenching itself from his throat and the thread of his fingers in some woman’s hair as he is guiding her head over his lap.

Rust bites his lip, hard, to get the visual out of his head and to ignore the numbness that settles around the base of his spine. He is a brilliant observer, it takes no effort to sum up two and two, to see right through people to the bottom to their fucking souls, but when it comes to the subtleties of social interaction he’s walking a tight rope with a blindfold. The bikers are some sort of archaic group, often more like a pack of wolves than human beings, and while Rust can handle the punching and snarling and gestures of dominance, he is utterly lost at their lack of conventional boundaries regarding everything that involves physical pleasure. Sometimes they remind him of teenage boys, careless, erratic and playful, watching porn, fooling around, sharing a hit, and he cannot predict what’s okay and what isn’t. When it comes to sex the only rule seems to be, that there has to be a woman in the game. And with Ginger he’s not even sure about that anymore.

Not when his lips curl into these smug, cocky smiles and he stretches on the bed like a huge cat, showing off every inch of his body, muscle straining against the tight fabric of his clothes.

It’s the high, Rust tries to remind himself, the lure of amphetamines, the soft orange haze of the bourbon, the keen spike of the blow. Nothing but the twist of the drugs that is wicked in their blood. He cannot give in, he dare not. And he bites down on his lip even harder, until he tastes copper and salt.

But Ginger won’t let it go. "You’re awfully tense, bro", he purrs. "Want something relaxing?"

He only means another substance from his toxicomanic stash, Rust tells himself but the sound of Ginger’s voice crawls under his skin and tugs at his insides and Rust knows that he is rock hard from nothing but a few words and random memories. "I’m good", he slurs back and reaches for the liquor bottle in Ginger’s hand. "Nothing a bit of bourbon won’t cure."

This time the other man shifts to the edge of the bed before he lets go of the bottle, and he is so close, Rust can feel the moisture in his breath like fog on an early morning. He smells the jungle and the swamp, too, the greenery and the slickness of the water and he swallows hard.

Ginger takes something off the night stand, crumbles it onto the back of his hand, on the golden triangle between forefinger and thumb, and shoves it right under Rust’s nose.

"Really, I’m good", he tries to refuse but Ginger won’t have it, his hand insistent, and at last Rust gives in and snorts, the rush of brightness like a blade to the brain and it doesn’t feel like a downer at all. He sways a little and Ginger has him, steady and warm and brimming with smugness. The splay of his fingers against Rust’s neck is red hot and seeps into his blood-stream like the hit. "C’mon Crash", he breathes. "Don’t tell me this ain’t better."

The motion is smooth and automatic, purposeful as the substance and the throbbing of desire in his veins, his hand flies to Ginger’s head, just below the ear where the skull dips into the neck, a mirror of the biker’s hold on him. "’t is", he hisses and stares into Ginger’s window-pane eyes, watches him watching him riding his high and savours the raging calm in his grasp and the stiffness of his muscles. His thumb digs into the tender skin of Ginger’s throat, so deep he can feel the hard, dry swallow, and for what seems an eternity they stay like that. Poised at the very edge, staring at each other. Ginger doesn’t blink but there is a strange softness to his gaze, nothing of the manic stare he usually flaunts, and Rust notices the rye-coloured curl of his lashes and the slight droop of his lids and he wonders if the bastard did this on purpose. Got him high as a kite and then nudged him, pushed him wherever he wanted him to. It’d be exactly what Ginger does.

"What’s this, brother?" Rust asks without letting go and the tension is straining against the hard angles of his face. Usually people are afraid of this chiselled sharpness that cuts to the bone, but Ginger is different. Perhaps he’s too dumb to recognise the danger, more likely he’s simply reckless. "The outlaw life", he smirks, the lush line of his lips so alluring behind the reddish thicket of his beard, it makes something snap inside Rust’s chest.

"Fuck it then", he mumbles and yanks Ginger closer, his heart like thunder in his ears. The kiss is a clash of teeth and tongue, no gentleness, only raw need and Rust is surprised himself how far Ginger has already pushed him. How promptly the growl rises in his chest, the white-hot fury they came to call Crash.

Ginger is surprised, too, more than he has any right to be, for it’s been him who unleashed the beast, and he’s seen Crash before, fighting, snarling, merciless Crash. But then he does not know, how Crash is usually bottled up inside Rust’s iron prison of a head, how he only rattles his chains when Rust fucks a girl, all restraint and good manners. Rust is in control most of the time, unless of course, he lets the animal loose and shrinks back into its place, watching from the side lines. Just like he does now as Crash licks into Ginger’s mouth, greedy, the taste of his spit fifty shades of crazy, like a flurry of rainbows. The fingers of his right hand dig into Ginger’s skull, a little less gentle than he’s imagined, holding him firmly in place, while the left hand glides over the coarse denim of Ginger’s jeans, upwards, until it finds its goal and rubs possessively over the hardened flesh.

"Shit, man", Ginger gasps when Rust finally breaks the kiss, his breath shallow and loud in Rust’s sensitive ears.

"Want me to stop?", Rust whispers back without actually stopping the grinding motion of his palm against the bulge in Ginger’s jeans and the choked sound he gets is answer enough. Rust can smell the arousal on him, the luscious pink flush of his pale skin, like rose pedals and blood, and he sweeps his tongue along the line of Ginger’s neck, tasting the salty sheen with relish. Jungle and swamp and danger.

Ginger shoves him away and backwards and for a split second Rust is worried and Crash snarls his disappointment, but he’s only tugging at his wifebeater and pulls it over his head, revealing creamy muscle and wreathing ink, and Rust thinks he has to taste every inch of it before the sun’ll come up and then Ginger is on top of him, pinning him to the mattress. He’s heavier and Rust fears he will drown in the sensation, the delicious friction of their groins as they’re pressed together, the density of his smell that’s around him like white noise and the need to taste like hunger on the flat of his tongue. Ginger slides over the length of his body, his hand a sprawl on Rust’s cheekbone, rough and exciting, and he lowers his head to kiss him and this time it’s one of those spine-melting kisses, sweet, slow, teasing.

It sucks all the breath out of him, all of Crash’s violence. His hands clutch helplessly at Ginger’s broad back and only when he’s convinced he’ll choke, does he roll them over. Their breathing is heavy now in the dark room and Ginger’s eyes shine like fucking lanterns when Rust sheds his shirt and unbuckles his belt, not even the ghost of a doubt in their gaze.

Still Rust wiggles out of his clothes as fast and businesslike as possible, certain the burn in his guts would kill him if Ginger thought the better of the whole thing, so he’d rather not take any chances. He’s not sure what he wants exactly but rather adamant that it’s about Ginger getting him off, tasting him, …

As soon as Rust’s naked, his hands hurry to the zipper of Ginger’s jeans who lifts his hips to help him peel the denim off and then Ginger’s naked, too, gorgeous and breathtaking, cock thick and hard in its nest of fiery curls. Rust does not even begin to know where he wants to touch him first. On a whim he grabs the abandoned liquor bottle and takes a large gulp and this at last stirs some words out of Ginger.

"Care to share, bro?", he says and without even thinking, Rust leans forwards, the mouth still full of bourbon and Ginger’s lips twists into another one of these smiles before he opens them wide and swallows and sucks the booze off Rust’s tongue.

The sensations fray like threads, velvety red on the taste buds, the deep thrum of heavy guitars in his chest, a whiff of gun powder on top. Rust barely feels Ginger’s hands running over the tense muscles in his back. The room is on fire.

It takes a moment until his body settles against Ginger’s, easing into the hot and wanton skin that presses itself up to him, and his mind clears a bit, sorting out the turmoil of impressions.

Rust knows the groan of ice straining under its own weight, the continental-plane-shift of expanding water, a deep rumble that cuts through the chill. This is not it, this is the glass-thin fragility of thaw and spring, the ground slippery and crackling; one false step and he will be swallowed by freezing darkness. Ginger’s succubus-sly smile is false reassurance; they’re on his turf here, no risk for him, but for Rust and his mission everything might hang in the balance. Apart from Miles maybe, Ginger is his key contact with the Iron Crusaders, without him, the whole damn mission’d go straight to hell.

Don’t overthink it bro, Ginger says, or perhaps he’s only imagining that, and Crash howls approval in his prison of meat and bone.

Rust’s fingers tighten on Ginger’s milky shoulder, the sturdiness giving way under the bony grasp, and he grinds his anger against the resistance of the other man’s body, hard cock on hard cock. The sensation erupts into a small firework in his brain, pale sparks in the night, and Ginger yelps, his hands reaching and groping in return, ragged fingernails on skin. The pain registers only as pleasure through the haze, every muscle strung tight and jungle-dampness easing the friction as they shift into each other, legs tangling and hips jerking and Rust laps at the saltiness of Ginger’s chest, tasting stubble and ink like gunpowder; and when his tongue curls around a nipple Ginger writhes under him just like the pictures on his skin, just like the high that still kicks and twists into new flavours.

It’s about then that Rust makes up his mind. He slides down the stretch of Ginger’s heavy limbs and drags his mouth along the long slope of the ribcage into the belly, his hands bracing against the hipbones and then his lips dip lower and Ginger moans, deep and tar-black, as they wrap themselves around his cock.

“Fuck”, he says and “Crash” and then nothing because he’s too busy breathing, ragged and rough, while Rust swallows him, pressing his tongue against the candy-bitterness of swollen flesh and his nose into coarse curls that smell like hay and river-mud and the darkness of it is just right and just good. His mouth is slick, the air scarce and sluggish. It makes his mind reel and the lust coil tight in his guts.

Rust has to lean hard onto Ginger to keep him from thrusting up his hips and shoving his dick down his throat, his grasp so hard there will be bruises, but he needs to stay in control, that’s the only way this can work. Ginger doesn’t seem to mind, perhaps he doesn’t feel the pain through the high, perhaps he likes it. It does not take long until Rust has sucked him into submission, the heartbeat eager in his shaft and the heat shimmer of orgasm on his thighs, and Rust’s own need aches in his bones. His right hand wanders off, along the tremors of Ginger’s thigh, soothing, then spreading the legs a little further around him. Ginger’s breath catches in his throat, when Rust’s fingertips skim the ring of tight muscle.

“I’m gonna fuck you”, Rust growls against the hot flesh, the truth of it like fire in his veins. It’s not a question, not a request, it is what’s going to happen and the excitement crackles between them like electric charges.

“Meth kit”, Ginger only groans in response. Their usual joke about his ‘med kit’ of drugs and toiletries that’s perched on the night stand sounds weird and silly in Rust’s lust-pounding ears. And that’s a good thing, because he needs to calm down a bit, the haze already twirls his mind into a blaze of instinct and colours. He’s on the verge of losing control, like every fibre of his being wants to thrust into Ginger, climb into his skin, suck him dry and eat his soul. His body seems glued to the guy, it doesn’t want to break contact and it takes quite some effort to get up. Rust tries not to look at the flushed heave of Ginger’s chest or the raw-bitten lips, afraid it will make him cross a line he must not cross and his fingers shake a bit when they comb the pile of pillboxes and tubes and wrappers and sachets for a condom. He’s only half surprised he also finds some lube among the rubble. Seems like his partner in crime is really in for every kick he can get. Something of that knowledge is oddly reassuring. He can work with that.

When Rust turns around, Ginger’s gaze is on him like headlights, rushing all over the jagged lines of his lean body, like he knows that the golden smoothness of Rust’s skin cannot hide the fact his muscles are wound too tight and his nerves chafed and raw.

The mattress dips under Rust’s weight when he crawls back onto the bed and between Ginger’s thighs and he can’t resist the urge to run his hands over them possessively, trail over the Rorschach-marks he’s already left there, blotchy bruises under the lily skin, before he tears open the condom wrapper. Ginger still stares at him, mellowed out madness, greedy junkie eyes, half-closed, and the strangeness of it hits him like the orange smell of rubber: He is about to fuck this white trash biker shit, for better or for worse, because the sheer inescapability of it hammers through his veins. There is no choice in this, it’s like it happened before and this is only the replay.

Ginger bites his lip when Rust slips a finger into him, then another, but there isn’t much of a resistance, the muscles are pliant and yield readily. Perhaps because of the drugs, perhaps due to routine, Rust doesn’t care. And he sure as hell won’t complain. He can taste his arousal like molten sunshine in the back of his throat as he glances down at his blunt fingers, pushed deep into that gorgeous arse. Experimentally he curls them and a sharp intake of breath signals that he’s found what he’s been looking for.

“Alright”, he murmurs, more to himself than anything, the word spearmint green on his mind, holding him steady and calm. Up till here it was a walk in the park, but further, that’s an entirely different story. He does not trust himself, he can feel Crash throwing himself against the bars of his cage. Control is slipping.

“Get it on already”, Ginger rasps and then, at last, Rust sinks into him, slowly, the tightness knocking the air from his lungs and the colours from his eyes. Fuckfuckfuck, he thinks, maybe aloud, but all he hears is this beautiful, low moan, bright and desperate and so sexy and it winds itself around his cock and pulls and he thrusts deeper, feeding into the sharpness in his belly, into the sensation of paralysis in his lower spine.

Ginger, the sick fuck grins like he won a fucking bet or something, and God, does he want to fuck that smugness out of the bastard. Crash snaps his hips, pushing hard and groans at the feeling and the mewling sound the move elicits from Ginger, and the hunger burns on his tongue like liquor and smoke. He leans down, so close, their mouths almost brush, but not quite, their breath foggy and hot between them. They rock into each other and Ginger tries to pull him into a kiss, but Crash’s hand comes to rest against his throat and he presses down, ever so gently, but enough for the threat to bleed through the gesture. Crash sees the extra excitement in Ginger’s hollow eyes and his fingers twitch with it, too, squeezing tighter.

No surprise really, he’d go for this extra kick, that he wants to shed control like a dirty shirt, strip off this whole biker-power-hierarchy-crap for a moment. Rusts envies that, he’d swap places in not time, but Crash, oh he likes being in charge. There is nothing in him that would appreciate the finer facets of submission. He is a creature fashioned from the unconscious, the dark, animal part, it knows no fear, only pleasure. It’s the part of Rust that doesn’t waste time on brooding, that never wallows in self-pity. He is mean and sharp and selfish like a coke high.

It’s also Crash who wants Ginger, as it seems. And yeah, why not, they’re two of a kind. Base desires, rough edges, an unhealthy bent towards madness. Mine-mine-mine is the rhythm in which he drives into the biker, the sparks of arousal lightning in his brain, his growl the corresponding thunder. He needs to own this sweet piece of ass, claim it and Ginger is along for the ride, eyes wide, breath wheezing, swamp and leather and razor blades.

They move like this, and it’s getting better. Nervous synapses spawning pleasure into their raw bodies, despite the drugs that already squat their brains like too noisy party guests. Ginger’s muscles strain against him, and his hands are all vicious fingernails, but Crash, he revels in pain and he rolls his hips into relentless, deep strokes that Ginger can probably taste in the back of his throat, before they turn into the choked noises Crash feeds off his lips.

Sensations are a whirr on the sheen of their skin, and somewhere Rust wonders how it can be clammy and too hot at the same time, but Crash does not mind; he keeps up the slick slide of flesh against flesh and every thrust and every push winds the spring tighter that sits at the centre of him. They could come like this, tangled into each other, like proper lovers, but ultimately this is not only about getting off, this is about power. Crash wants to see Ginger coming apart, wants him to know that he bears witness, so he kneels back, Ginger’s legs draped over his thighs, opening him for his hands and his eyes. And what a picture it is. Breathtaking. He’s buried in him to the hilt, and Ginger’s cock bobs above it, swollen, flushed, delicious. Crash wraps his fingers around it and jerks and Ginger’s whole body arches into the touch – manic, wide-eyed, struggling – it takes him with it, air turned into flame as he sucks it into his lungs. Reality’s slanting. The pull of his fist is fierce, angry, and it echoes through Ginger like waves and shivers. And then he breaks in the most beautiful way, not at all as expected. There is no brutality in this, no violent burst of tension, his body stretches like a pale shadow, almost elegant. Rust feels the orgasmic spasms long before the seed spills hot over his hand and in between he catches a glimpse of the person Ginger could be, under all the grime and racist crap and redneck-attitude. It makes him do something he has not quite foreseen. He leans down into a kiss that’s sweet and smooth as ice-cream, while his hips rock slow and deep, like waves breaking at the shore, and then he comes too, saltwater-smell in his nose. Desperate shudders and jolts of pleasure and Ginger holds him all the way through it, strong, solid arms and warm lips.

It’s the fucking ecstasy, Rust thinks when he lies there, in the soft afterglow that is Ginger and bourbon and the taste of sunlight, because everything feels much too fuzzy and too good and probably he will wake the next morning with a gun barrel pressed to his temple or a knife against the throat. But somehow he does not care. Somehow all he can think about is the taste of ink and stubble on his tongue and that he’s still wired, even though he’s already snorted something else off Ginger’s hand, something that’s supposed to help them sleep. But hell, sleep is for the dead anyway and the night is still young and the desire crawling like bugs under his skin.


End file.
